When I said

I wanted to write you a poem

You didn’t understand

I don’t like flowers

Beneath the anchors of my hair

A storm advances

Dominating

Tangled willows

Rivers of crabgrass

A cabin on a hill

Three pairs of hiking boots

Mud crisping in this ambient oven

We both marveled at the thunderclouds

Now speak to me of your distaste

For I see beauty and confidence as pure and enticing as fresh fruit

I reached for it

Held it close to my lips

Which gasped

As the rain fell

And the wind blew away the shoes

Still I looked to the sky

Fell in love

And knew why

Then I looked down at you

Fell apart

And looked up

I wish the ground were always solid

Because I always seem to fall

And I wonder

If I stood up slowly

Would my legs still shake?

I realized I had to write you a poem

The day I stopped believing in flowers